Their
machines shine,
And glint
darkly in the sun.
Our machines
bask,
And reflect
not.
Their
machines are of thought,
And slip
through them.
Our machines
are literal,
Course,
crude and slow.
Their
machines skim,
Over sand
and bower.
Our machines
tear,
Grunt, quake
and moan.
Their
machines dive,
Amongst us,
slicing.
Our machines
roar,
Spit and
explode.
Their
machines are cruel,
Capricious
and bright.
Our machines
are dumb,
Unthinking
and slow.
Their
machines swarm,
Spreading
and twitching.
Our machines
squat,
Alone and
grounded.
Their
machines leave glimmering,
Beautiful
graveyards and tombs.
Our machines
die slow and loud,
Glory and
ruin amidst the wrecks.
Are their
machines truly machines?
Are our
machines anything but?
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